


'til the Light of the Dawn Shineth Bright

by MDJensen



Series: Safely Rest 'verse/post-finale [3]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Williams family love, basically smothering Steve with love until he decides to love himself, more (platonic) McDanno love, more Jersey love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Steve and Danny crash with Danny's parents for a while; there's cuddles and fresh muffins and maybe a little healing, too.Sequel toGone the SunandSafely Rest, rounding out the trilogy 💜
Series: Safely Rest 'verse/post-finale [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826170
Comments: 84
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

Like so much this past week, the drive back north is unexpectedly lovely; Steve can’t complain about riding shotgun, not even internally. He’s completely content to watch the scenery pass.

They follow the coast, but glimpses of the actual ocean are sparse; mostly the road takes them besides bays, and wetlands. The smell of saltwater blends with marsh, not unpleasantly. Just beyond the edge of the asphalt is a landscape of miniature islands, immersed in still water; Steve imagines walking there in bare feet, feeling the sea grasses against his own skin.

There’s no sound in the car but for road noise. Neither of them bothers speaking, and for once Danny leaves the radio off. But Steve doesn’t mind. It’s not uncomfortable, or even somber; days full of emotion have simply caught up to them both, and they’re tired, unwilling to spend energy where it doesn’t need to be spent.

It's the same reason they don’t make many pit-stops either. They plan a couple; then collectively decide to forego everything except Asbury Park, where they dip their feet in the ocean then buy fancy donuts.

They order a dozen; receive 13. The extra donut disappears almost instantly— three big bites each— then Steve does something he never would have contemplated doing even a week ago.

He leans back against the head rest, and takes a car nap.

*

He wakes to an absolutely ungodly smell; it’s burnt rubber and human waste, and Steve grunts in displeasure and slaps the recirculation button on the minivan’s dash. Danny chuckles.

“Okay, so. I will admit that New Jersey has some areas of questionable odor. Not for nothin’, so does Oahu.”

“What is it?”

“The oil refineries. Among other things.” Danny’s expression is still one of smug amusement. Steve tries to scowl back, but Danny won’t even do him the courtesy of looking over. So instead he checks out the scenery— such as it is. The refineries look a lot better than they smell; not pretty, per se, but interesting. Like miniature cities, complete with skyscrapers of pipe and flame.

They pass the airport, as well; and yards full of shipping containers; and dozens of billboards; and green highway signs pointing towards New York. Then before long, Danny sighs, softly. They exit onto a local highway, which trickles to an almost-suburban street.

A few more turns, and then they’re slowing. Then Danny eases the minivan into the driveway of a small blue-grey house, and kills the engine.

“’s it,” he murmurs. And maybe Steve should make fun of him for such an obvious statement, but he just can’t bring himself to.

Danny’s home. He’s allowed a little sentimentality, considering.

Steve takes in the neighborhood, as they grab their bags. It’s cramped, but quiet. A few of the tiny lawns host groups of kids, playing summertime games; but the packed-tight houses do well in blocking the sounds of the nearby highways.

It’s— kind of wonderful. Crowded and compact and a little run-down, but sturdy. _Resilient_. Most definitely a place that could call Danny its son. It even _looks_ like Danny: the neutral-colored vinyl and bright lawn ornaments echo the man’s penchant for plain, pale shirts and absurd novelty socks.

The thud of luggage on concrete breaks Steve from his reverie. He looks up to find Danny in his mother’s arms, his father standing close at hand; and for a moment he feels so removed from it that he wants to cry.

Then Clara’s squealing his name, rushing to hug him too. And Danny’s hugging his father, who then shakes Steve’s hand, and then Danny’s parents are half-hugging each other so Steve, instinctively, half-hugs Danny.

Danny laughs, and sniffles, and half-hugs back.

Clara babbles happily as they make their way inside; Steve catches snippets, though his attention is pulled in a dozen other directions as well. He wants to see all of it. Absorb all of it. Not just for the sake of learning where Danny comes from— though that’s a lot of it, of course— but because this place just feels so much like a _home_ that he wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket.

Leggy houseplants in the windows. Ceramic tchotchkes in a curio cabinet. Pictures, _everywhere_. The walls are pale yellow, marked in a few places by candle soot. The carpet Steve sets his duffel on has been trampled flat by decades of foot traffic.

“Oh,” Clara adds, with a sarcasm that recaptures Steve’s attention, “and Glinda’s here, again. Did you tell Steven about Glinda?”

A glance at Danny shows the man kneading his forehead. “I did not tell Steve about Glinda. I do not bother with Stella’s lesser offenses.”

In the time it takes Danny to answer, Steve’s come up with half a dozen theories of varying levels of scandal. None of them are true. Glinda, it turns out, is an overweight boxer, with lopsided ears and the nubbiest tail Steve’s ever seen.

Stella-drama aside, Glinda herself is clearly loved. She scuttles around the room, collecting affection from all; when they settle onto the couches she immediately drapes herself over Danny’s lap and settles there, tail thumping happily. Danny rubs her belly, scrunches her ears.

“So,” Clara prompts. “Tell us about your trip, so far!”

Before sitting, she’d brought them all beers; Steve’s content to sit and nurse his, contributing only when prompted. Not that he doesn’t have nice things to say about their week. Just, he likes listening to Danny talk about them much more than he’d like listening to himself.

Danny’s telling them about the glass museum they visited when Glinda abruptly stands up, and flops into Steve’s lap instead.

He and Danny laugh, but Clara sighs. “I should have asked, is she bothering you, honey?”

“Me?” Steve replies. “No, I love dogs. I have a Lab.”

“His name’s Eddie,” Danny adds, smirking at his father; at that moment they realize, simultaneously, that Eddie (the human) has dozed off. Clara rouses him with a chuckle.

“Well, we’re going to get started on dinner. Daniel, why don’t you give Steven the tour?”

“Inna min’,” Danny grumbles. “Gotta pee. Look at the pictures, or something,” he adds to Steve, as he gets to his feet with a groan. Glinda jumps down, and trails him from the room. Clara and Eddie head into the kitchen, so, left alone, Steve does as suggested and peruses the photographs.

There’s even more than he noted at first glance. Larger photographs fill every wall; framed 4x6s fill every surface. Dannys of varying ages smile (or scowl) out at him from studio portraits, graduation photos, candid snapshots; he recognizes Eric, Matty, and Bridget too, and from there it’s not hard to work out which one Stella is. The younger grandkids are there as well. Steve sees recent-ish school pictures of Grace and Charlie, and another boy and girl who must be Bridget’s. 

Just for fun, he selects a few favorites. The runner-up has got to be the headshot of a school-age Danny, in an all-white outfit, posed beatifically— First Communion portrait, maybe? But the first place goes to a twentysomething Danny. He’s perched on the edge of a hospital bed, holding a newborn Grace in his arms; he looks exhausted, and terrified, and absolutely smitten.

In the midst of it all Steve recognizes another face: his own. He’s in two pictures, both clustered with other more recent photos on the top of a waist-high bookshelf. The first is, unfortunately, a selfie taken by Danny and his short arms. They both look ridiculous, out of focus and grinning wildly; only by their impeccable suits can Steve place that it’s from the night they were recognized by the Queen of England (and got champagne drunk at Harry Langford’s penthouse afterwards, because how could they not?)

The second captures a quieter moment. It shows Danny, Steve, and the kids, all in pajamas, posing by the Christmas tree for what was obviously an intentional, timer-taken photo. Danny and Grace have their arms around each other. Steve stands at Grace’s other side, Charlie balanced on his hip; Charlie’s giving his sister bunny ears while Steve and Grace give shakas to the camera.

Danny’s hands, for once, are at rest. He’s just standing, half-hugging his daughter and absolutely beaming. 

And actually, on second thought, this might be Steve’s favorite picture. Narcissistic? Perhaps. But seeing himself in such a happy picture, displayed in a home he’d never before set foot in—

Well.

It’s a pretty good feeling.

Steve presses a little deeper into the house; not wanting to bother Danny’s parents in the kitchen, he follows Danny’s direction of retreat instead.

Only ten seconds later he’s stopping again to take in the scenery. The placement of a door (probably to the basement) has created a thin strip of wall between the door frame and the wall’s end, no more than a foot in width; the Williamses, it seems, turned this little space into their own record-keeping project.

The yellow paint is jam-packed with pencil markings. There are dozens of horizontal lines, some overlapping, all labeled with a name and a year: _Danny 1985_ , _Bridget 1992_ , and so forth. Steve’s still looking it over as he hears footsteps approaching.

“Got measured every Christmas morning,” Danny notes, standing beside him. “You workin’ out the mysteries of the universe, babe?” he adds, when Steve apparently takes a bit too long to respond.

“Jus’ tryin’a work out what year your little sister outgrew you,” Steve shoots back.

Danny snorts, tosses his head. “Dunno. Matty beat me out when he was still in middle school.”

“Shoulda eaten your veggies.”

“Ate my veggies,” Danny grumbles. Then he exhales slowly, and headbutts against Steve’s arm until Steve drapes it around his shoulder. “I miss him.”

“I know.”

“Too many people t’miss, man.”

“I know,” Steve says again, jostling Danny lightly. Danny chuckles softly, and turns to pull Steve in for a hug; it doesn’t last very long, but Steve’s pretty sure they both take real comfort from it.

They pull apart. Steve gets the feeling that Danny would rather move on with the tour; still there’s one more question he’s got to get out first. “Did Eric— grow _really_ fast, and then shrink?”

Danny laughs aloud. “Oh. Oh my god, no, do you remember Moon Shoes? He’d just got ‘em that morning, he refused to take ‘em off. Starting next year we had to get measured _before_ presents.”

“Amazing,” Steve whispers, and lets Danny lead him away.

For how well he’s been doing playing tour guide so far, Danny’s not a very enthusiastic docent this evening. Steve can’t blame him. His childhood home is obviously dear to him, but neither new nor exciting— never mind the fact that Steve himself wants to know everything. He’d hear backstories for the scuffmarks on the baseboards, if Danny felt like telling them. 

Instead Danny leads him on a cursory march through the downstairs: “bathroom, dining room, kitchen— hi, Ma— living room again”. Then they grab their bags and head to the second floor. “Bathroom,” Danny narrates, “linen closet. Master bedroom’s there at the end. This one’s mine. You can sleep in Bridget and Stella’s room.” And he ushers Steve into a small bedroom with two beds in opposite corners, with a window and a bookshelf on the wall in between them.

There’s more in the room, of course. But Steve just drops his duffel and hightails it over to Danny’s room, because, come on. Who wouldn’t want to see their best friend’s childhood bedroom?

Inside the walls are blue, the carpet grey; decorating the room is even more sports memorabilia than Steve expected— which is really saying something. There’s plenty of football stuff— Jets pendants, posters, a jersey. But there is an absolute trove of baseball paraphernalia— not only a million and one pieces bearing the emblem of the Mets, but Danny’s own trophies too, displayed on a shelf along with a picture of teenage Danny and (presumably) his high school coach.

Steve’s smiling so widely his face hurts; then his gaze falls onto the bunk beds. And his heart breaks for Danny all over again, because he knows damn well what it’s like to be reminded of your grief, nonstop, even within what should be your safe space.

“Is it, like, everything you’ve dreamed and more?”

“Be even better if you pointed me to the yearbooks,” Steve replies, matching the lightness of Danny’s tone.

Danny flips him off; but that’s honestly the response he’d expected.

They make their way back downstairs before too long. From there the rest of the evening passes comfortably, with pasta and wine for dinner, and donuts for dessert.

They end up heading to bed earlier than Steve expected, but he doesn’t mind. Apparently they’ve got somewhere to be early, _before it gets crowded_ , but Danny won’t tell him what. Just pulls a face and says, “I’m making a sacrifice for you, Steve.”

Steve raises one eyebrow at him and thanks him; and they retire to their respective rooms.

Inside his, Steve takes the bed that he’s pretty sure is Bridget’s (he gets the feeling Stella still sleeps in hers sometimes, so this feels less intrusive). Stretching out on it, he lets himself sigh. It’s the first night in over a week he’s got a bedroom to himself; it feels a bit odd, but he can’t say he minds.

There’s a comfort, to being alone. It’s different than the comfort he takes from Danny; and, to be honest, it’s a lesser comfort too. But a comfort nonetheless. The room is quiet and cool, and he lies still and does some easy breathing exercises until he drifts to sleep.

*

It turns out that Danny’s sacrifice is taking them to a bakery he doesn’t like very much; one which is _not as good as they think they_ are and _too big for their fucking britches, at this point_.

“But it’s like, you have to, if it’s your first time in Hoboken,” Danny explains, as they climb back into the minivan, first thing in the morning. “Just to say you did.”

Steve’s never heard of _Cake Boss_ anyway, but he keeps that to himself.

Although Danny has always talked about Hoboken like a next-door neighbor, it’s actually a bit of a drive. Steve doesn’t mind. It’s early enough that traffic’s not bad, and it’s cool enough to drive with the windows down; New York lines the horizon, and though Steve’s been to enough damn cities that they shouldn’t impress him anymore, this one still does. He all but stares at it, as it slowly draws closer.

At last they reach their destination, just as it opens; there’s a line, but it’s not bad, and soon they’ve back in the minivan. Breakfast is cannoli, eaten as Danny drives them south to Jersey City. They’re not as good as the ones Steve had in Italy but they’re still enjoyable; as is the slice of rainbow cake they split for dessert.

This, they eat on a bench in a waterfront. Danny had been planning to make the Statue of Liberty a mere drive-by, but when Steve protested when he realized this, and so they’d made a detour so he could stare at her a while.

“You’re not amazed, are you?” Steve comments, at one point, without taking his eyes away.

“What you gotta understand is, this was— lessee— my fourth grade field trip, my seventh grade field trip, my freshman history field trip—”

“Fine! Fine.”

“I guess she’s still _objectively_ impressive, though,” Danny admits. “We can go, if you want. Not today, ‘cause Bridge’ll wanna come. But we can go.”

Steve nods, still honestly captivated; Danny lets him stare another few minutes before dragging him away.

They head back west. Traffic’s much worse, now, and Steve’s treated to some quintessential Jersey driving as Danny fights with it as best he can. They lurch along. Steve waits for the moment that the pastries and the stop-and-go begin to conspire against him but, thankfully, it never comes; maybe a solid week of riding shotgun has finally cured him of his motion sickness.

Ha! Not likely. But he appreciates the respite today, in any case; especially since their next stop is (big surprise) for more food.

They’re in Newark now. Danny guides them through a smaller neighborhood, close enough to see the downtown skyscrapers but far enough that the streets seem quiet. They stop at a bakery Danny identifies as Portuguese. Inside they buy some fresh bread; then, with an air of absolute ceremony, Danny points out the custard tarts that are apparently their real reason for coming here.

Steve plays along. The tiny pie-shaped-things don’t actually catch his eye among the shelves of other colorful treats, but Danny’s obviously excited for them.

So excited, he buys two dozen.

Again, this seems excessive— at least until Steve takes his first (creamy, flaky, buttery, vanilla-y) bite.

For the next hour Danny gives him a driving tour of his old precinct. And by the time they’re headed back across the river, they’ve inhaled six _pasteis de nata_ a piece, and disposed of the box to make it seem like this first dozen never existed to begin with.

“We got Teixeira’s,” Danny announces, the moment they arrive back home. Clara and Eddie help themselves eagerly. Danny passes Steve a fresh tart and intones, with a sort of verbal wink, “you _have_ to try one, babe.”

Unsurprisingly, the next thing Steve and Danny do is nap on the couch with Glinda.

Lunch, once they’re up to it, is cold cut sandwiches on too much bread. Then the last of the tarts. This puts them right back in their carb comas: Steve tucked up in the corner of the couch and Danny stretched across its full length, stocking feet propped up in Steve’s lap.

Eddie’s gone upstairs to nap in bed. Clara’s still up and about though; she’s doing something in the kitchen, though she pops in from time to time.

“Does Steven enjoy being your footrest, Daniel?” she asks, on one of these occasions.

“He’s fine, Ma,” Danny scoffs, without looking up. “I’m keepin’ him warm.”

“Oh. Are you cold, honey?”

Steve opens his mouth to say assure her that no, he’s used to Williams-level AC by now; but he’s cut off. “He’s always cold,” Danny grumps. “he’s from the friggin’ equator.”

Untrue. But Steve doesn’t argue; this is a weird form of cuddling, but it’s still kind of nice.

Eventually the conversation shifts to the rest of the day. Namely: “are actually gonna do something today, or are we just, y’know, doin’ this?”

“You could take Steven to Weehawken!” Clara calls, from the other room. “Show him where you lived with Rachel— oh, and Hamilton Park!”

“Steve doesn’t wanna go to Weehawken, Ma!” Danny hollers back.

“Did you ask him? I think it’s worth a look!”

“Steve,” Danny sighs. “Do you want to go to Weehawken, and see where I lived with my ex-wife, and see where President Hamilton was assassinated?”

Clara’s poked her head around the corner now, and she and Steve catch each other’s eyes. “My Daniel,” she sighs, with a quick glance heavenwards. “History was never his best class.”

“Or geography?” Steve teases, as Clara disappears again.

“Mm? What’d I do?”

“Hawaii’s a thousand miles north of the equator,” Steve tells him, patting his foot. “And Hamilton died in a duel, and he was never president.”

“Ah,” Danny replies, and shuts his eyes again.

In the end they settle on having a lazy day. Clara’s making her lasagna— the recipe Danny once praised as what he’d want for his last meal— and the whole house fills with the smell of it, making them want to leave less then ever. 

The rest of the day passes easily. They lounge, eat lasagna, play Monopoly; then, stuffed and sleepily contented, they all put themselves to bed.

*

Steve wakes to dead silence and absolute panic. For a moment he has absolutely no concept of where he is— doesn’t know the country, let alone the city— and it’s only by turning on his phone flashlight and examining the room that he’s finally able to place himself.

Danny’s sisters’ room. Danny’s parents’ house. New Jersey.

He’d thought—

He’d thought, for that moment, that he was still overseas. That he’d never made it back to the States.

That he and Danny were still lost to one another; that he was still without his partner, his ally in this fight to get back to himself.

It’s not real.

It shouldn’t scare him.

It fucking terrifies him.

He gets himself upright in a lame attempt to catch his breath; it doesn’t work, and suddenly he’s panting, gasping, profoundly breathless, as sweat begins to prickle at his scalp and nausea begins to work in his stomach—

Horrifyingly close to a literal loss of control.

So Steve does the only thing he can think to do. He slips from bed, and, moving as quietly as he can, makes his way of out of the girls’ room and into Danny’s—

And freezes.

Because, honestly— what the fuck is he doing? He’s a grown-ass man; how in the world is it okay that he’s literally sneaking into his friend’s bedroom in the middle of the night? This is stupid. This is so far beyond stupid that he can’t even completely fathom the fact that it’s happening.

He needs to leave. But the thought of walking back out of the room makes his brain feel like it’s been caught in a garbage disposal, so he hesitates; and somewhere in these long moments of indecision, Danny wakes up anyway.

“ _Jesus_ , fucking—” Danny groans. “One’f these days I’m’n’a punch you ‘n the nuts. Won’t even be my fault.”

“Huh?”

“Generally speaking, it’s considered creepy to lurk over someone while they sleep.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Danny coughs a bit, struggles upright. “You okay?”

It takes so long for Steve to formulate a reply that in the end he gives up, stays silent.

“Uh-huh. Listen— you can just bring your stuff in here. Tomorrow, I mean. Only put you in the girls’ room ‘cause I figured you’d want some space. But you can just— you can just sleep here, for real. So you don’t gotta make me poop myself at two in the morning again.”

It’s too dark to be sure, but Danny sounds like he’s smiling.

“Okay,” Steve mutters. The baking soda volcano inside of him has fizzled out, chemically quelled by Danny’s presence, and he almost sobs in relief.

“You’re okay,” Danny soothes. “Just get some sleep, huh? We can talk in the morning. You need anything? You need water, or somethin’?”

“No.” He has it together enough to start up the ladder, now. “Thanks.”

“Mm. Night, then.”

“Goodnight,” Steve whispers, curling up under the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super excited to be diving into the last fic of this trilogy! I'm hoping to get it done over the next month but please be patient with me, friends; I am a teacher in the US and the next couple of weeks are going to be... interesting, I'm sure.
> 
> Anyway! Time for more Jersey notes. I meant to scale to references back for this fic but... that didn't happen. We're on Danny's home turf right now (which is also my adopted home turf) and there's a few things I just needed to include. So!
> 
> Purple Glaze (donut shop, Asbury Park, NJ); Carlo's Bakery (the place from _Cake Boss_ , Hoboken, NJ (I don't care for it)); Teixeira's (bakery, Newark, NJ)
> 
> And yes, Danny and Rachel canonically lived in Weehawken, which is also the location of the Hamilton/Burr duel. There's a memorial/site marker in Hamilton park although I must admit, I've never visited.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve sleeps.

Maybe he doesn’t sleep _well_ , but he does sleep; and when he wakes in the morning he’s still on edge but no longer truly panicky.

It’s already bright out. He should get up and go for a run before it gets any hotter; instead he rolls onto his other side and decides to give himself another five minutes before facing the day.

No sooner has he gotten freshly comfortable than he hears grunting from below. “Steve?”

He clears his throat a little before calling down, “morning.”

“Morning. Just checking. I’m just glad that I did not _dream_ that a six-foot navy SEAL came into my bedroom last night.”

“That’s”— he has to clear his throat again— “a lot of people’s dream.” 

“Uh-huh. Tell yourself that.” Danny pauses. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Bad dreams?”

“I don’t think so?” Well, probably, but he doesn’t remember them. “I just woke up— panicking, man. Like. Full-on.”

“Was there something that caused it?”

“I dunno.”

“Or, if you don’t wanna talk about it—”

“I don’t know,” Steve repeats, rubbing his forehead now. “I don’t know if something caused it. And I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”

“Okay. Well, I gotta pee, so. Gives you a few minutes to decide.”

Danny leaves, then. Steve takes the opportunity to climb down the ladder and curl up in Danny’s bed, precisely in the warmth he left behind.

A few minutes pass. The door creaks open and shut once more, and the mattress dips as Danny perches beside him.

Facing the wall, Steve can’t see his partner’s expression. But he can picture it; can picture the concern brewing there, just like he can feel it in Danny’s fingers, as he lays a hand on Steve’s arm. “What’s the verdict?”

Steve can’t help but sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Just, honestly, man, I don’t even know. I just— I just had— so much anxiety all of a sudden. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Felt like I might get sick. But nothing— had happened. I just woke up to it.”

“Any better now?”

“Yeah. I— felt better once I wasn’t alone.”

Danny seems to think for a minute. “You know,” he drawls, eventually, “that’s pretty normal.”

Steve doesn’t reply to this, at least not directly. Instead he shuts his eyes and mutters, “is it all right if we don’t go downstairs for a few minutes?”

“Hello, it’s Saturday _and_ it’s vacation. It’s okay if we don’t go downstairs until noon.”

“No, I’m not saying that. I know there’s stuff we wanted to do—”

“But didn’t we literally plan to just relax our first few days here? Hey,” Danny adds, a bit more forcefully this time, “Steve. Everything’s fine. See if you can sleep a little more. I mean it. Sleep.”

And, surprising himself, Steve does.

*

Maybe it’s these extra minutes, or maybe it’s just Danny’s presence, but he feels almost back to normal when he wakes to a ringing sometime later.

He stirs, rubs his eyes. Feels the warmth against his back of Danny still sitting beside him. “Wassat?”

“What’s what?”

“Oh—” Steve yawns, waking up a bit more now. “I forgo’ ‘bou’ lan’lines.”

“You forgot about— jeez, okay, glad you’re so hip and such. Yes, my parents are in their sixties; they have a landline.”

Steve just hums in reply. Danny’s bed is unexpectedly comfortable, and he can probably stay for another twenty minutes or so before he absolutely has to get up and pee, so he intends to.

“You feel any better?” Danny prompts.

“Mm,” Steve hums. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good. We’ll move your stuff in here, later.” Danny’s fist bumps, very lightly, to Steve’s arm. “But don’t expect tradesies on the bunks, huh? I don’t care if you’re taller. I’m older; I get bottom.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re _so much_ older than me.”

“Fine. I have a _bum knee_ , so I get bottom.”

Steve’s still thinking of his next retort when Clara’s voice interrupts them, shouting up to Danny that the phone’s for him. With a grunt, Danny goes to answer it. Bed all to himself, Steve rolls onto his back and stretches lazily.

For a few minutes there’s silence. It’s broken by two sets of footsteps up the stairs; and Steve realizes he can hear the conversation, though he’s not actively trying to.

“Thought you two would be up and at it by now,” Clara’s saying. “Is Steven feeling okay?”

“He’s feeling fine. He had a rough night, kinda spilled over into a rough day.”

At first it bothers Steve that Danny would tell his mother that, but then again, that’s just the relationship that they have. They tell each other things. As foreign as that seems. 

“Oh,” Clara replies. “Well, is there anything I can make him? For when he’s ready? I could make blueberry muffins.”

The footsteps have stopped now, and Steve hears Danny’s hand on the doorknob. “I mean, I’d never say _no_ to blueberry muffins,” Danny consents; and then he’s coming back into the room and closing the door behind himself.

“Who was it?”

“My Uncle Vito,” Danny replies, plopping back to the mattress. “He wants to get breakfast.”

Steve snorts. “Have fun. I’ll pass.”

“Well, I wasn’t— I didn’t figure I was gonna go, huh? Gonna keep you company.”

Just the offer makes Steve smile, and he shakes his head and nudges a knee to Danny’s thigh. “Nah. Go see your uncle.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“You’re right, it’s not. Danny.” Steve finally sits up, putting his face— and thus his sincerity— on full display. “Go see Vito, huh? Tell him I say hello. Just try to stay outta trouble.”

Danny chuckles. “Hear that. Okay.”

“I’m gonna go for a run. Then I’ll hang out with your mom and look at baby photos.”

“You’re a jerk. You sure it’s all right?”

The face that Steve pulls in response must be a good enough argument, because a few minutes later Danny’s dressed and heading out. He still seems to feel guilty (evidence: he hugs Steve goodbye). But there’s really no need. Steve washes up and gets on some shorts and a t-shirt, then goes for a run, just like he’d said.

The run helps, too. It’s his first in, damn, probably over two weeks; and he’d needed it, especially given how many carbs he’d eaten yesterday. Maybe the anxiety was nothing but energy without an outlet.

Maybe. At least in part.

Back at the house Steve showers and dresses for the day, then heads back downstairs to find Clara in the kitchen. She is, in fact, baking, though Steve makes no assumptions about what.

Clara smiles as he enters. “Did you have a good run?”

“Really good.” He helps himself to some water; wonders if it would be acceptable to have leftover lasagna for breakfast.

“I forgot potato salad, for the barbeque tonight,” Clara continues. “I sent Eddie out to get some.”

Right, the barbeque; it’s Saturday, and Danny’s sisters are both coming by for a cookout. “I’m looking forward to it,” Steve replies, mildly. “And I’d be happy to help you get ready, if you need.”

“Maybe in a little while. For now, sit! I just put some muffins in the oven. We can have some coffee while they bake.”

Ah. So, she is making him muffins. Or, at least she is making muffins. Not necessarily for him, of course. But there are— there are muffins being made.

Something funny happens in Steve’s stomach. It’s not quite painful; but it’s not quite pleasant, either.

“Sit!” Clara says again, because he hasn’t yet. So Steve settles himself at the kitchen table, not even remembering to offer his help with the coffee.

But if Clara’s at all offended, it doesn’t show. And a minute later a big mug is being set before him, and Clara’s sitting at his side. “I saw how you take it yesterday,” she notes, nodding downwards, “but you let me know if it needs anything.”

Steve takes a sip. “It’s perfect,” he assures her— and it really is pretty close to how he’d have fixed it for himself.

“Good. I don’t make Daniel’s for him anymore. No matter _what_ , he says I put too much sugar in.”

“No, it’s perfect.” Steve smiles, quelling the not-quite-pleasant feeling that’s happening again. “Thanks.”

“And Eddie drinks it however I make it, so, I think I get a little careless, you know—”

Clara’s light chatter continues, mostly unanswered, for a minute or two. Steve attempts to engage; mostly just drifts. He tries to remember the last time he was a guest at a friends’ parents’ house: it was Freddie’s parents, almost certainly, but when? During BUDs? A gap between deployments? The exact time isn’t relevant, though; twenties or early thirties, it had still been strange to feel so young again.

Of course it’s even stranger now.

Now he is forty-freaking-three. And, sitting here with Danny’s mom, it’s still his instinct to be quiet and mannerly enough that he might just earn a coveted pat on the head—

“Danny’s worried about you, you know.”

It’s the shift in Clara’s tone, more than her words, that pulls Steve back. He rubs his forehead. “I know.”

“I thought he’d lose his mind with it, those months you were away.” Clara’s face bears no judgement, just a small, patient smile.

“I didn’t mean to worry him. I mean— I guess I knew it would. But.” Steve shrugs, kind of feebly. Takes another sip of coffee, rather than say anything more.

Clara’s chair creaks as she leans in a little closer. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t forget the potato salad. I just thought maybe you could use a mom to talk to.”

Steve laughs, but he knows it comes out flat.

“And if you’d rather not,” she continues, “hey, extra potato salad. No harm done.”

He thinks about drinking more coffee; but just those few mouthfuls are already sitting not-so-great in his stomach. Of course, not drinking leaves his hands idle. And that doesn’t feel great, either.

“I’m— I’m having kind of a rough patch,” Steve admits, very quietly.

“Yeah?”

“My mom died, this past November. And, uh— the year before that, my old CO. And we were close.”

He’s pretty sure Danny’s told Clara all this already, but she just nods. “That’s a long rough patch.”

“I guess so.”

He’s got both hands on the table now, pinning each other down so he can’t fidget like a schoolkid. As he watches, Clara lays her hand atop them. “What else?”

Clara’s hand is warm, and gentle. Her Danny-blue eyes are open, and earnest; and Steve can’t remember the last time a conversation with his mother actually made him feel _better_. He considered it a success if one didn’t make him feel worse.

But Clara Williams is not Doris McGarrett.

“I guess I’m just feelin’ kinda run down,” Steve murmurs. “Just— more anxious than I used to be. And sadder, than I used to be.” There’s a lump in his throat now; he tries without success to swallow it. “And I don’t know,” he admits, “what to do about it.”

“You thought it would help to get away for a while. Did it?”

“Yes and no. I mean, it helped to get enough sleep for two months. Not to see any dead bodies for two months.” Of course, he _hadn’t_ gotten enough sleep. And in his dreams, he _had_ seen their bodies.

The lump in his throat is a fucking boulder by now. His eyes sting. “I think it was a— a pretty classic example of treating the symptoms but not the disease.”

Clara opens her mouth to reply— and the timer sounds. They laugh. She squeezes his hands before letting go, and Steve takes the moment of privacy to mop his eyes with the collar of his t-shirt.

The smell of blueberry muffins fills the kitchen. Steve wipes his face again, but there’s no point; real tears are coming now, sliding heavily down his cheeks. Clara catches his eyes, and they laugh again, weakly.

“Want one while they’re still warm?”

“I,” Steve starts, then has to stop. “I don’t think I could eat right now.”

“I kind of figured.”

“I’m sorry. You went through the trouble—”

“Steve,” Clara interrupts, softly. “First of all, we can always warm them up later. And second— they’re just muffins.”

“Right,” Steve murmurs, but he doesn’t at all believe it. Just muffins? No, they’re effort, and _thought_ , expended solely for his benefit. It’s not even slightly okay that he’s not eating one; just, he feels like he’d choke on it if he tried. The runoff from the tears is suffocating enough on its own.

Clara stands, oven-mitted hands on her hips, and considers him openly. “You’re not used to being looked after, are you?”

“No.”

“Of course, I knew that already but— you’re really, _really_ not.”

“No,” Steve whispers; his nose is running, now, and he swipes at it with his knuckles.

“It’s hard to feel like you’re always the protector. Isn’t it? You might not be able to tell, but I’ve been there before.” Now she relaxes her arms and takes the mitts off slowly, eyes fixed on her own hands. “When Daniel was in grade school, I lost both my parents in the same year. Eddie and I were having trouble— but don’t say anything, because I don’t think the kids knew that. Eric had just been born. It was a strain, having a baby in the house again. Eddie just started working more and more. Home less and less. Daniel wasn’t old enough that I felt right with him helping out. My brother tried, but— well. You’ve met him. He’s got a good heart. Not so much in the way of brains.” Clara smiles. “For a few years there I didn’t have anyone to lean on. But it felt like I had everyone leaning on me. But can I tell you something I learned from it?”

She’s hung the mitts back up; and she comes to Steve’s side now, and motions for him to let her take his hands again.

“All that does it wear you out. Until you’re no good to be leaned on, anyway.”

“Until you panic and disappear halfway across the world?”

“Hey,” Clara teases, “I didn’t say it.”

Steve swallows, then swallows again. “I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

“I guess the whole point of it is, you don’t do anything.” She smiles. “You don’t work for it. You don’t try for it. You just— stop resisting it.”

“Even that’s not easy.”

“You let Danny worry about you. Even though I’m sure you didn’t exactly _let_ him. At least not at first. But aren’t you glad you do now?”

“Pretty glad.”

“Well, I hope the exception extends to the rest of our family. You deserve to have people worry about you, you know.” As Clara speaks she lets go of his hands; then runs her fingers through Steve’s hair, smoothing it back into place. “It’s going to be okay. I promise, honey. Okay? Come here. You need a hug.”

“Yeah,” Steve bleats, the noise of it coming out ugly. Clara wraps her arms around his shoulders and hugs him close, until his cheek comes to rest against her stomach.

And, okay. He’s gotten a few good hugs this past week, but he hasn’t gotten a hug like _this_ in years. Probably since Deb passed. It’s so damn _motherly_ that he can’t help but weep aloud, as she rocks him like a little kid.

“I know, honey,” Clara hums; she’s stroking his back, now, as he sobs and sobs and sobs. “You’ve been through a lot, I know. I know, honey—”

*

Afterwards— after Clara makes him drink a glass of water, after she’s sent him upstairs to rest for a while— Steve lies in Danny’s bed, awake, but with eyes closed. There’s a weakness to his body, but a lightness too. Like maybe he couldn’t manage the same burdens he carried this morning; but like he doesn’t have to, because they’ve been lessened.

It’s not quite an emptiness. But it’s definitely the absence of something. This is probably the fourth or fifth time, since leaving Oahu, that he’s felt completely out of tears. Dried-up, cried-out. All the other times he’s still managed to find more, weeks or days or mere hours later— but he’ll enjoy the quietude, while it lasts.

Though he doesn’t mind when it’s broken, either; because it’s broken by his best friend’s arrival.

The door opens, and shuts. Then Danny plops beside him, smiling— and smelling— like he’s had a few drinks. “Stevie,” he greets, and bops Steve on the hip.

“Stevie?”

“ _Steven_ ,” Danny corrects, overenunciating the first and last letters. “McGarrett.”

“Yes.”

“Ma said you guys talked.”

“Mm.”

“And you did a really good job, and you were napping now.”

“I did a good job? That’s one way to put it.”

“You did,” Danny mutters, and wrangles him into a little-spoon position. An instant later there’s an arm wrapped around Steve’s waist, a nose digging into the back of his shoulder. “Vito got me drunk.”

“It was breakfast.”

“Yeah? It was _Vito_.”

“Right.”

“So Imma nap too, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, patting Danny’s hand where it rests on Steve’s own belly. “Don’t throw up on me.”

“N’that drunk,” Danny hums. “ _Hey_.”

“Hey what?”

“Love you.”

Steve chuckles. Thinks about the first time Danny said that: they’d just escaped the lowest level of a collapsed building, and the legitimate possibility they’d die down there. And it had still taken a little wheedling to get Danny to say it.

Now he’s saying it just because Steve’s gloomy, and Danny himself has had a few. He’s said it a few times this trip, actually. (Who knew that all it would take was an additional five-plus years of constant trauma, sharing a major organ, and Steve having a semi-breakdown and fleeing Hawaii, just to get him to say it so easily?)

“Love you, Danno,” Steve echoes, and Danny sighs softly in response.

And then he goes weighty with sleep, and Steve follows close behind.

*

Steve dozes for a while, but his body won’t stay under long; so there’s a solid hour (at least) spent just lying there, Danny snoring in his ear. Not that he minds. He’s warm and comfortable, and the twinge of hunger in his belly is allayed by the knowledge that there are still muffins waiting downstairs.

Eventually Danny snuffles, and retracts his arm. Steve pushes himself upright and watches Danny come awake, yawning and rubbing his eyes for a full half-minute.

“Hungover?”

“’m not so sure I’m not still drunk,” Danny deadpans, then goes back to rubbing his eyes. “Gah. Very, very, um, _specific_ kind of day where you get drunk under the table by a senior citizen before it’s even noon.” He yawns again, massively, then opens his eyes to squint upwards. “How ‘bout you? How you doin’?”

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” He sits now, too. “Ma wouldn’t say much, but you hadda be— pretty upset, if she made you go lay down.”

“Is that her usual response?”

“Mm-hm. Cry it out, drink some water, go lay down. Honestly, I wonder why I turned out so awful. I was raised good, no question.”

“I don’t think you turned out awful.”

Danny snorts. “Right. Thanks. _Unhappy_ , I guess I meant. But don’t change the subject.”

“I got— worked up,” Steve admits. “Nothing new. Your mom was just bein’ really nice, y’know? She made me muffins. It made me cry.”

“Right. I got drunk at breakfast and you cried over muffins. We’re amazing.”

“I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t really cry about the muffins.”

“I know. I know. _Jesus_ ,” he moans, “sorry. I need Advil.”

“Don’t move, I’ll get it.”

“No, I might needa throw up, too. Or at leas’ wash my face. I’ll be back.” And he hauls to his feet and staggers out the door, presumably towards the bathroom.

Happily, no sound follows but that of running water. And when Danny comes back he looks at least marginally more human for having washed his face and brushed his teeth (though he hasn’t fixed his cowlick). “Good?” Steve prompts.

“Eh. You?”

“Eh.”

“I know.” And Danny drops to the bed and sags sideways; Steve dutifully joins him and gives him a shoulder to lean against.

It’s a while before they make it downstairs. When they finally do, Clara greets them warmly— then proceeds to tease her son with horrid-sounding hangover remedies until Danny pleads for mercy.

She grants it; makes them all tea instead. She warms up some muffins, too, which she and Steve snack on while Danny props his chin on one fist and dozes off.

It’s less awkward than Steve feared, being left (functionally) alone with Clara. She’s up for more _conversation_ , he can tell; but he’s not, and she clearly respects that too. Instead they chat about happier things. They trade stories and pictures of Grace and Charlie, then Steve shows off Joanie as well. They talk about Steve’s trip to Europe, and his time so far in Jersey. And when they start working to make deviled eggs— and Danny wakes with a moan, and all but flees from the smell— they laugh together at Danny’s expense.

Oddly enough this all feels even more precious than the time they shared before.

*

Late afternoon finds the house overrun; Bridget has arrived, family in tow, as well as Stella, and a couple of cousins Steve knew about but never made much note of. Vito’s there too, loud and cheerful as ever. He immediately starts needling Danny about his (better but still present) hangover, and doesn’t stop until Danny consents to _a fuckin’ beer, at least, jeez_.

The three of them toast— to nothing in particular— then Vito turns elsewhere. Danny and Steve are left slowly nursing beers in two plastic yard chairs, pulled just far enough away from the rest that they can manage a private conversation.

“Okay, so, Bridget you know. Kids are Sophie and Jack; husband Ted.”

“Ted,” Steve repeats, and sips his beer.

“Stella, obviously, the one who isn’t Bridget. That’s my cousin Britney, her brother my cousin Adam, and Adam’s girlfriend— um— Adam’s girlfriend whatshername.”

“Whatshername,” Steve echoes, dutifully, earning him a scowl.

Truthfully Steve hadn’t been expecting quite so many new faces; and for the first hour or so he finds himself a bit overwhelmed by the influx. But as time passes, he eases. Integrates. Danny is more Danny than ever, surrounded by his family: gritty and contrary and loud— and tender, and thoughtful, and loving—

And it’s nice. To see Danny in his native habitat. To watch him grill with his dad, toss a football with his niece, hit his cousin with a water balloon.

Not that Danny lets Steve _watch_ for very long. He plays a card Steve can’t refuse and challenges all present to a yard game tournament, which ends with Steve being crowned the new Russo-Williams Family Cornhole Champion.

And after that, the rest is easy. Steve chats with Bridget, plays fetch with Glinda, takes some shots with Danny’s cousins. Pigs out on two burgers and an unknown number of hot dogs. And as the sun sets and the party winds down, he gets put in charge of collecting sticks and starting the firepit.

It’s around this point that Danny snags the hammock, and refuses to surrender it. But Steve does fine on his own, tending the fire and making friendly conversation with anyone who wanders over to toast marshmallows. In fact, it’s only when the yard is empty and the fire smothered that Steve turns to look for Danny at all.

He finds him, not unexpectedly, still in the hammock. Danny grins, evidently quite pleased at having held his ground, and waves Steve over with one lazy hand. Steve checks for embers one last time, then goes to Danny’s side.

“C’mon,” Danny grunts. “There’s room.”

“Oh, so you know how to share, now?”

Danny’s grin just widens. Steve climbs in facing the opposite direction, and Danny wastes no time in propping his bare, hobbitty feet just beside Steve’s shoulder. “So,” he sighs. “That’s pretty much everyone.”

“I liked them.”

“They liked you. Y’know, Cornhole notwithstanding.”

Steve laughs. Shimmies a little lower, until his bare feet are at Danny’s shoulder (turnabout being fair play, and all that). His back thanks him, for lying down. So for a few minutes they both just stretch out and lounge, in comfortable silence.

“So,” Danny begins, eventually.

“So?” Steve repeats, raising his head to meet Danny’s eyes.

“I didn’t pay good attention to you this morning.”

“That’s okay, man. You weren’t feelin’ too great.”

“Now, that’s an understatement. But. Preoccupied as I was with, with not vomiting all over you, I didn’t really— check in, as much as I should have. And I’m taking it that you had, like, a legitimate moment or something. So, this is, y’know. I’m checking in.”

Steve huffs softly, and lays back. The thick strands of rope press tightly against the crown of his head. “’bout the muffin crying.”

“About the muffin crying.”

“It was nice,” Steve answers, slowly. “To have a mom to talk to.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

Though Danny’s not a man notable for his patience, in this moment he exudes nothing but. He lays a hand on Steve’s leg. And for another long moment they both just stare upwards, at bright planes and faint stars.

“I think,” Steve continues, finally, not lifting his head this time. “In think, in my mind, my mother is two separate people. She’s Doris McGarrett, and, she’s my mom. And they both— they both died, when I was 16. But only Doris ever came back.”

Danny says nothing, but his hand squeezes warmly.

“These past few months, it’s only been Doris I’ve thought of. It’s only been her that I knew how to miss. But this morning. It’s like it brought back those other memories. And for the first time in years, I remembered my mom. Y’know? Not Doris. Not the operative. My _mom_. I remembered her. And so, finally— I could miss her?”

Steve laughs, and sniffles. But he doesn’t bother to wipe the couple of tears that have rolled down the sides of his face, into his hair. “And I can’t lie: missing her? Hurts like a bitch. But I’m glad it happened. I’m glad I figured it out, y’know? Because, I wanna be able to miss my mom. I wanna be able to think about my good memories of her, without Doris being, like, a shadow over them.” Finally he shifts, meets Danny’s eyes. “Is that crazy? Like, is that absolutely the most psychotic thing?”

“I don’t think it’s crazy to do anything that lets you keep the good memories.” Danny’s voice is maybe the softest Steve’s ever heard it. “I say, do whatever you can to keep as many as you can of those.’”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, and finally wipes the tears. “Man. Your mom really is the best, Danno.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think I would’ve remembered, if she hadn’t reminded me. Not to mention— she said some stuff I’ve really been needing to hear.”

“Oh yeah? What’d she say?”

“I mean— just, about letting myself be looked after. I know,” he adds, before Danny can interrupt, “I know you’ve said that a hundred times. But I needed— a mom to say it.”

“Fair enough.” Danny pats his leg, then takes his hand away. The hammock rocks as he pulls himself more upright. “You ready to head inside?”

“Um. I mean, are you tired yet?”

“Not really.”

“It’s a nice night.”

Danny chuckles, and the hammock sways again as he gets freshly comfortable. “It is a nice night,” he muses, and pats Steve’s leg again.

And then for a while there’s nothing but quiet, and company, and the hazy dark blue of the urban night sky.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Sunday, turns into another homebody one without debate or even discussion. Outside it’s cloudy, and drizzles on and off. Danny’s parents have plans after church that they expect to last most of day, leaving Steve and Danny with the house to themselves.

They make good use of it. Eat breakfast, watch a movie, nap; eat lunch, watch another movie, nap again. (Steve slept better last night, but he didn’t sleep _great_.)

They take their afternoon nap stretched out on separate couches. Glinda— who didn’t go home with Stella yesterday, though Steve didn’t ask why— sprawls on the floor at Steve’s side, well within arm’s reach. He scratches idly at her side as he rouses. Her fur is shorter and coarser than Eddie’s, but petting her soothes the dog-shaped ache that’s been building in his chest for months now.

He’s not ready to go home yet. But in that moment it occurs to Steve that he is, at least, ready to start thinking about it.

That’s a milestone in and of itself.

And God, when he walks through that door and sees his dog… well. He can already tell it’s not going to be a dignified moment, but he looks forward to it nevertheless.

They’re not completely slothful all day, though. To say thank you for giving them a place to stay (among other things), Steve had wanted to make Danny’s parents dinner, and of course Danny had jumped on the idea. So, after their second nap they make a grocery run. They settled earlier on chicken saltimbocca with root vegetables (Danny’s favorite entrée) and strawberry cassata (Steve’s favorite dessert); both courses require a few not-quite-common ingredients. Afterwards, supplies acquired, they get to work.

It’s wonderfully easy, to fall back into the rhythms of cooking with Danny. They share space effortlessly. Danny, of course, takes on the harder jobs: wrapping the chicken, seasoning the veggies, making the filling for the cassata. But this meal is a two-person job, no question. Steve cuts the carrots— batonnet, like Danny taught him— and assembles the dessert, when it’s time.

He's absolutely _dousing_ the sponge cake layers with strawberry-rum syrup when Danny laughs quietly behind him. “What?” Steve prompts.

“What, what?”

“Why’d you laugh?”

“Remember that time we opened a restaurant?”

Steve sets his spatula aside; turns to regard Danny, who’s just closing the oven on the chicken. “While still working full-time? Yes, I do.”

“We were good at it.”

“Yes, we were.”

“Two or three years off on the timing,” Danny remarks, with a small, but not unhappy smile. “Oh well. _Que sera, sera_.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we weren’t ready then. To turn in our badges. And now we are, but I am _not_ working for Kamekona.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve agrees.

“In our own damn restaurant, no less.”

It’s not their restaurant anymore, Steve muses; that’s kind of the point. But he doesn’t say that. Just turns back to his dessert preparation, layering cake and jam and mascarpone filling. “Hypothetically,” he continues, after half a minute.

“Hypothetically?”

“Your ideal future,” Steve replies. “What do you want the next twenty years to look like? Best case scenario.”

“Best case scenario?” Danny snuffles. “Hm. Lessee. I marry Margot Robbie. We get a penthouse in SoHo. But she’s oh the road a lot, filming, obviously, so I mostly have it to myself. I pass the days doing martial arts and becoming an actual, legitimate whiskey snob. Never again do I leave the tri-state. You can visit, I guess. When she’s not in town. Obviously when she is, we’ll never leave the bedroom.” 

It’s a joke. Steve knows that. Still he finds his hands hovering, frozen, above the cassata; finds himself unable to turn around, give Danny anything besides his back. 

Then Danny sighs. “I’m a putz. I know.”

“I know.”

“It’s— self-preservation,” Danny adds, and all of a sudden he sounds tired.

It’s Steve’s turn to sigh. “I know,” he repeats, and forces himself to turn. Danny looks as weary as he sounds.

“Best case scenario?” Danny shrugs a little. “Grace moves back to Oahu after college. Charlie never leaves. You move back, y’know, _now_.”

“Mm.”

“You and I both keep our health. We make plans to retire and we actually keep ‘em. We each find something that matters to us, to fill the days. And at night we have a couple beers. Maybe watch some Netflix before we hit the sack. But that’s—” Here he pauses a moment, and chews at his lip. “That isn’t to say it’s gotta go like that.”

“Right,” Steve agrees, instantly. “Right. Obviously.”

“If the academy’s the best place for you, you know, if California’s where you need to be—”

 _Oh_.

Oh, Danny meant— _he_ wasn’t trying to wrangle _Steve_ into anything—

“Have you thought any more about it?” Danny continues, trying and failing to sound casual.

“Not really,” Steve replies. It’s the truth; but clearly it doesn’t get his real point across, because Danny just shrugs.

“Hey. Last time we talked about this, you said to me, you know you’ll feel better once you just make a decision. And that makes sense. You have a lot of moving pieces right now. You do. If you can find something to anchor yourself to— then there you go. One decision down, others’ll fall in place. If the academy could be that anchor, I don’t want you choosin’ otherwise, on my account.”

“I’m, um,” Steve babbles. If he’d been caught off guard by this conversation, that’s nothing compared to how he feels at this turn it’s taken. “I’m— not.”

“Not choosing the academy? Or not basing your decision on me?”

“I am,” Steve replies, then has to laugh at himself, just a little. Wow. He’s not doing such a great job with the explanations tonight; so he takes a deep breath and tries again. “You said— one decision down. Rest’ll fall in place.”

“Yeah. Fingers crossed, at least.”

“What if I told you that— you’re my one decision. You’re my anchor. What if I said that, and let the rest fall in place from there? I mean— would that be—?” He lifts his gaze from the floor, where it had fallen unintentionally. Finds Danny looking nothing so much as hopeful.

More or less how Steve himself probably looks, right about now.

“Would that be stupid?” he continues. “Would that be too much to put on you?”

“That is,” Danny replies, “not too much to put on me. Assuming I can put the same back on you. That is not too much to put on me.”

“Just. Danny— you’re my guy. You’re my— you’re my person.”

“That’s— that’s— yes. That’s the same, for me.”

“Let me ask you. Is that just until you find a—”

“A gal?”

“Yeah.”

“This is still best case scenario?”

“Best case.”

“Then no,” Danny says, softly. “No. I’m done, man. My heart’s used up. You’d’ve asked me ten years ago and I would’ve had a different answer. But my best case right now? Is you and me. I’m done with Rachel and you’re done with Cath. It’s just— us. I got my main man. I got my kids. No vacancies. My best case scenario is me and my best friend living long and happy together.”

“Okay,” Steve croaks. He’s not quite getting enough air, but Danny comes over and cups a hand below his elbow, and that helps. That helps a lot.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Happy tears, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve gets out, because apparently he can only manage monosyllables right now. Danny squeezes his arm, and lets go just long enough to pour them each a generous glass of wine.

“Happy tears are good. I still want you to stop before you finish the cassata, though. Don’t want you crying in the marscapone. Hey, _saluti_.”

“ _Saluti_ ,” Steve whispers, taking the glass he’s being offered and clinking it with Danny’s own before throwing back half in one go.

“Take a breath,” Danny coaxes, holding Steve’s arm again. “Take your time. Take your time.”

*

Steve does indeed take his time. He needs a few more minutes (and a little more wine) to calm down, but he does, and they finish putting the meal together just in time for Clara and Eddie’s arrival. And it is— in Steve’s humble opinion— some of the best food they’ve ever made. Everyone has seconds, then dessert, then seconds of dessert. They polish off the bottle of wine, then another; and when dinner’s over they linger at the table, talking and sipping limoncello.

It’s fully dark out by the time Eddie yawns and gets to his feet. Steve’s feeling about ready for bed, himself: tipsy not only on wine but on comfort, sated not only by good food but good company, too. Relaxed. At ease.

Which actually makes this the perfect time, to do the thing he’s been putting off for over a week now.

So he tells Danny to head up without him. Take first turn in the bathroom. Says he needs a few minutes to himself, to think, which Danny accepts without complaint.

Steve goes out to the backyard. Settles himself in the hammock. Then he pulls his phone out, and scrolls to a contact he hasn’t called in months.

He dials.

Yesterday he took a major step towards healing his relationship with his mother, who, although he doesn’t want to look at her that way, was probably the second most important person in his life. At least, the second most influential.

Time to turn his full attention towards the number one spot.

The phone rings. It’s Sunday afternoon in Hawaii, a perfectly acceptable time to call; but for a moment Steve hopes he’ll go to voicemail.

Nope.

“McGarrett?”

Steve lets his eyes close. “Hey, Eric.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Do you have a minute?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I just— I need a favor, man.”

“Okay?”

Breathe in. Breathe out. There’s a reason he’s doing this with half of a bottle of wine in his belly. “I need you to tell me— what happened when I wasn’t there. With Danny,” he adds, though as though there were any uncertainty. “Eric, I need to know everything.”

“Ah. Well. How much do you know already?”

“Infection. Then sepsis. Twelve days in the hospital, four in ICU.”

“What else do you want to know?”

Eric sounds almost angry. It’s a surprise, but it’s hardly unfounded.

 _I want to know who held his hand_ , Steve thinks, dizzily.

“How bad was it?”

“Bad like, how close did he come to dying? Or bad like, how bad did it hurt him, that you weren’t there?”

Steve can’t reply.

But Eric, it seems, takes pity on him, then. “Basically,” he continues, “worst thing the doctors said was that he might need a new kidney or, y’know, dialysis for life. That was the scariest thing they said. It never really got to where they were talkin’ about losing him. Then again, I was such a wreck, maybe they were just tryina keep me calm.”

“How was he?”

“He was disoriented. The first two days in the ICU especially. He was— confused. He wasn’t lucid. He asked for you a lot.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I dunno. Maybe I should have.” Eric’s voice has grown tight again. “Or maybe, you should have checked in, regardless.”

“Yeah,” Steve grunts. “I should have.”

“When they realized his kidneys were failing— I dunno,” Eric mutters, cutting himself off. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry I asked you to revisit it. Obviously it was a hard time for you, too.” Steve sighs. “T’be honest with you, man, I don’t know what I wanted you to say.”

“Well, I dunno what else there is to say, commander. They let him out of the ICU; kept him admitted another week for dialysis and, y’know, IV drugs. And then he went home. Few weeks restin’ up, went back on light duty in early May. Does that at least sort of answer what you were asking?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Eric.”

“Okay. Give my Nonna a hug for me, huh?”

“Sure thing. Thanks again.”

The line disconnects. And it feels like nothing less than being slapped in the face by rubber band that had been stretched for five thousand miles.

He is _five thousand miles_ from home.

And maybe he’s only thirty or forty feet from Danny; but even that small distance feels too large.

Any distance from Danny will feel too large, until it’s been cleared of every last piece of debris.

So Steve tips himself out of the hammock, and heads upstairs.

Danny’s stretched out in the bottom bunk, already in pajamas; he blinks drowsily at Steve as he enters the room. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Um. Listen, man.”

“Listen what?”

“I know we’ve been talking a lot. We’ve been talking so much.”

Danny nods, pushing slightly upright. “Yeah. We’ve needed it.”

“Right. Right. But I know, it’s tiring. But—”

“But what?”

“Can I just say one more thing, tonight?”

Danny smiles, and sits all the way up now. “'course you can.”

“I just— I need to say it. I’ve been needing to say it. And I just feel like, I’m on a roll, to say it now—”

“You don’t have to convince me.” Danny’s voice is gentle. He’s been using this tone with Steve a lot, lately. “Come on. Sit.”

Steve does, just as Danny stands, and goes over to his bureau for a box of tissues.

“Let’s face it, babe,” he notes, clocking Steve’s expression, “you haven’t gotten through many conversations dry-eyed, as of late.”

“Yeah, I guess I haven’t.”

Danny’s back now, but he remains on his feet for a moment, eyeing what seems like the bunk beds themselves.

“Matty was, like, the opposite of claustrophobic,” he muses. “If that’s a thing. When he was havin’ a rough time, I used to hang the sheets around the sides, y’know, of the bottom bunk. Make a little cave for him, sit in there with him.” He grins. “You wanna try it?”

“It’s embarrassing enough you’re literally bringing tissues,” Steve grumbles; and it is, but it’s also impossibly comforting. Tissues are just so— human. The box, sitting at his feet now, a tangible acknowledgment that he’s allowed to be upset; he’s even allowed to be gross and _leaky_ about it. He presses the cardboard corner with one fingertip while Danny gets settled.

“So,” Danny prompts, once he has.

“So.” Steve forces a smile. “I just got off the phone with Eric.”

“What, uh. What’d you call him for?”

“I asked him to tell me more about what happened when you were in the hospital.”

Danny nods, adjusting himself slightly. They’re both cross-legged, close but at enough of an angle they can meet eyes (though they don’t now). “Why?”

“Because,” Steve sighs, “I wanna ask you to forgive me. But first I need to know what you’d be forgiving me for.”

“And did he fill you in?”

“I guess.”

“Was there anything you didn’t know already?”

“Yeah.” Steve closes his eyes for a moment. Wishes fervently for the buzz he was still feeling as little as five minutes ago; but he is abruptly, utterly sober. “Yeah, there was something I didn’t know. And I gotta ask. Would you have called me, if you _had_ ended up needing a kidney?”

Danny snorts. “Talk about full fucking circle.”

“Would you have?”

“Can you even be a donor, if you’ve been a recipient?”

“Stop avoiding the question—”

“I _don’t know_.”

Danny’s anger is a sudden and tangible thing; the hairs on Steve’s arms raise, and he can’t stop a shiver.

“I was really, really angry with you,” Danny continues. “Okay? Like. Like, _unflatteringly_ angry with you. I think I probably woulda been a little mad anyway? But you left me when I _really_ needed you, Steve.”

“I know.” Steve sits up a bit straighter. “I know I did.”

“You needed space. Fine. That was fine. But you know that thing we do, that thing where one of us needs the focus? We take turns? That was _my_ turn.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“And you left anyway.”

“Yeah.”

And suddenly, forgiveness seems like maybe too big of an ask. For a long, miserable moment, Steve flashes back to their fight last weekend: shouting at one another in a friendly little restaurant, leaving together when all they each wanted to do run in opposite directions. Passing a sleepless night, feet apart but utterly isolated. Marinating in anger and hurt and dread, until they were sick-stomached enough to weep.

Not this time.

That’s not how it’s happening, this time.

“I did wrong by you,” Steve murmurs. “I knew that already; I know it even better now. I’m not asking you to let me off the hook.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

It’s not a question Steve anticipated, though maybe he should have. Either way, he steels himself. Tries his best.

“I want you to know that I still love you.”

“I know that.”

“And I want you to still— love me.”

“Steve.” Danny sighs. “I love you. I— I love the stuffing out of you. For what it’s worth, I think I do a pretty good job of showing it.”

“You do. Seriously. I just—”

“You’re somebody who needs to hear it,” Danny finishes. “I know. Okay. So, that’s all established. What else?”

“I want you to know that I’m sorry.”

“What does that _mean_?”

“It means I know I did something wrong,” Steve replies. “Leaving when you were so hurt. And— and I’m sorry for the little part of me that wanted to leave even more because of it. Because I just wanted to not be in the same hemisphere as where I held you on the way to the hospital. Felt you bleeding.”

It’s there that Steve has to stop, has to focus on his breathing until the tightness in his chest eases up. Not because he won’t let himself cry for this. But because he can’t, _yet_ ; these words are too important.

“I’m sorry I left,” he continues, eventually. “When I knew damn well that I’m your safety net just like you’re mine. It was wrong to leave without making sure you had some other way of feeling supported, especially when you were hurt already. And that’s not a mistake I’ll make again. And I guess I want you to trust me that that’s true.”

Danny pats Steve’s leg, but doesn’t leave his hand there. “I want you to prove it to me.”

“There’s— no way to do that but to do it, huh?”

With a smile, Danny shakes his head.

Then he sighs. Clears his throat. “Now me.”

“Now you, what?”

“Now I need to apologize.”

“What do you have to apologize for?”

Danny thinks in silence for a long, long moment. “Not understanding how badly you needed to leave. Acting like I knew what was best for you, thinking of myself before you.”

“You’re supposed to think of yourself—”

“No. Steve.” Danny smiles, tiredly. “Basic principle of us, is that we both look out for the other one more than we look out for ourselves. For better or worse, that’s just how it is. But when you looked me right in the eye and told me you needed to leave— I said no. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t say, _please wait a month, I’m in a bad place right now_. I just said no, and I’m sorry. And I’ll do a better job listening, from now on.”

“I think you’re remembering that wrong, Danno. You didn’t say no.”

“Maybe I didn’t say the word, but.” Danny shrugs. “Intents and purposes. It’s like, I knew how much you were hurting. But I didn’t wanna look at it, y’know? I didn’t wanna deal.”

“You literally moved in with me, when my mom died. How do you feel like you weren’t supportive?”

“Because it wasn’t just your mom.” He stops, and swallows. “Because maybe she was the last straw, but you’ve been in pain a lot longer than that. You’ve been in pain since the day I met you, and probably before. Just, you always carried it so well. I just let you carry it. But when it comes down to it, you were hurting. And I just stood by. So, I’m sorry.”

“You trying to apologize for not fixing me? For not knowing a magic spell to cure PTSD? People don’t fix each other, man. People fix themselves.”

“Okay, but.” Danny forces a smile. “I’m sorry because of all the times you needed somebody to look at you and say, _I know you’re in pain_ , and I didn’t.”

Steve’s lungs seize up again, and this time he doesn’t fight against the hoarseness in his voice or the tears in his eyes. “Oh,” he chokes out. “Wow.”

“Good wow? I hope?” Danny prompts, when Steve doesn’t go on.

“Um. Good wow. Good. I just— that hit, man. That—” He laughs, loses track of his sentence. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve rasps. “I’m just— yeah.” And now that the words are finally out, he lets the tears out too. Works his way through a couple of the tissues, while Danny rubs his back and teases him about how he knew they’d come in handy.

“Remember when we went to therapy together?” Steve says, when his voice comes back to him.

“Mm?”

“We’d be so good at it now.”

“ _You’d_ be so good at it now,” Danny corrects. “I was already good at it.”

“Remember that retreat— we didn’t realize it was, like, romantic couples—”

“ _You_ didn’t realize.”

“And then I sprained your ankle?”

“God, don’t— don’t cry about that, please. That’s such small potatoes—”

“I wasn’t. Coupla years removed from it now, I think it’s kinda funny actually—”

“Well, I didn’t say you could _laugh_ about it!” Danny barks. “Still twinges sometimes! _Asshole_. Maybe I’ll decide I _am_ still mad about that.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“But.” Danny nudges Steve’s shoulder with his. “I’m not mad about anything else, anymore. Just— to confirm.”

“No?”

“No. So. You need a hug, we could do a hug. C’mon. You need to be honest, about what you need. So maybe next time you have a bad day we can talk it out. Save running away to Europe for when you’re in a good mood.”

“Okay,” Steve breathes. “I definitely— could use a— yeah.”

“C’mere,” Danny murmurs, pulling Steve close. “I love you, Steve. And you and I? We’re fine. Completely fine. And we’ll only get better from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just. Want. Steve. To be. HAPPY. *screams*


	4. Chapter 4

In the end they stay the rest of June and the first days of July with Danny’s parents. There are trips to New York, as well as one to Philadelphia; there’s plenty of hiking (surprisingly close to the cities) but plenty of stay-in-pajama days, too. They go with Danny’s parents to a sculpture garden. They go with Bridget and her kids to the Statue of Liberty, and the American Museum of Natural History. They go— mostly for a gag— to Weehawken.

Partially out of a need to be a good guest (but mostly out of an unquenchable desire for parental affection), Steve sets himself to work plenty, too. He helps Eddie on some home improvement projects. Helps Clara with her tiny flowerbeds, and hovers constantly when she’s in the kitchen.

Not that she’s in the kitchen much. Inspired by their recent foray, Steve and Danny mostly take over the cooking; in mere weeks they try (almost) as many recipes as they did in their year of restaurant prep. The Williams house becomes a culinary paradise. And full days go by in which his most serious conversations with Danny involve what they’ll be serving up that night.

But that’s not every day.

The conversation, that Sunday night, felt like the summit; felt like the hardest bit of the climb, the point at which the rest was sure to be easier. But it wasn’t the finish line. Not yet.

Those last weeks in Jersey they sightsee and they cook; but they also _talk_.

*

They’re driving back from Philly when Steve finally says, aloud, what they’ve both known for a while.

“Um. I’ve been thinking.”

Danny tilts a little, as though to listen more intently. “Yeah?”

“I wanna go back to Oahu. But. I wanna leave Five-0.”

“Okay. Kinda already assumed that second part.”

“But like, leave leave. Not run things from HQ. Not— be available for consultation. Or special missions. I genuinely need to be _done_.”

“I hear you.” Without taking his eyes from the road, Danny reaches over and pats Steve’s hand. “I got it. We’re retiring.”

“You don’t have—”

“Stop. Steve, I hit pension years ago. I made plans to leave back then, and remember what happened? You went with me. Then you changed your mind, and I went with you. If you can tell me for sure that you’re not gonna change your mind again, then, I’m ready. I’m more than ready, man.”

“I’m not gonna change my mind again.”

“Okay,” Danny says, simply.

And for all that Steve had agonized over it, the Five-0 conversation really is that easy.

*

They’re on a hike, taking a water break side-by-side on a massive rock, when he strikes up the next one.

“So,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead, “I think you should come live with me.”

“I do live with you,” Danny replies.

“No. I mean. For real. For— good.”

“Oh. Okay. Big thing on the table.”

“I mean, you don’t have to—”

“Stop. First let me get one thing straight, because I know your brain, and I know you’re already panicking.”

“I’m not.”

“Debatable. Let me say. I like that idea. I like it a lot.”

The noise Steve makes isn’t quite a laugh; it’s softer, but just as happy. 

“But there are logistics, babe. Like. We would have to have some real, logistical conversations before we made a decision like that.”

“I know. That’s four bedrooms; we’re one short.”

“Not only that. Listen to me. I love your house. Obviously. It’s fucking beachfront. It’s gorgeous.”

“Yeah.”

“But I don’t know— if it’s— the best place for you to go back to. I don’t think you’ve ever really felt like it was yours. I don’t think you’ve treated it like yours.”

Ah. Okay. He’d sort of expected the central air thing to be the next on Danny’s list. Not— this.

“If you wanna decide, right now, that we live together now? For good? I’m in. Truly. But I really, really question, if should be that house.”

He’s shaking a little. It’s not from the hike. Danny wants to live with him, for good, and in some ways he’s never been happier. But in others—?

“Can we sleep on that part of it?”

“Yeah,” Danny breathes. “’course we can, babe.” And he scoots closer, and tucks his arm around Steve’s waist, sweat be damned. “An’ I’m not gonna force you into anything. We’ll do what we can do, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Jus’ take a deep breath, huh? I’m sorry if I upset you. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, wilting sideways. The tide of anxiety is receding, and its absence leaves him loose and drowsy.

“But, I do want to live together,” Danny adds, jostling him slightly. “God. Let’s live together, huh? Holy shit, we’ll drive each other nuts. I can’t wait. Also, we’re getting central air, okay?”

This time, Steve does laugh.

*

They’re on the couch at Danny’s parents, in pajamas the next morning, when Steve grabs the remote and switches off Netflix. Time for part 2; or, more realistically, part 200.

“If I move out of that house,” Steve says, evenly, “I’m admitting I’ll never have kids.”

Danny’s response comes out just as neutrally. “Do you want kids?”

“I,” Steve starts. Then has to pause, because his mouth’s so dry that his tongue is sticking. “I want to be somebody who has kids.”

“Explain the difference.”

He’ll try. “All my life,” he begins, “I questioned if I’d be good at it. I questioned if I even wanted it. But even then, I never questioned if it would happen. That just always seemed like a guarantee. And now I’m 43, and— got not one, but two, legitimate medical conditions.” He swallows; it sticks, too. “And I don’t think I want to go down that road, now. At least not in the— the traditional way, y’know?”

“You know, I was half waitin’ for that to happen with Nahele.”

“I would have,” Steve replies. “If he’d asked.”

Danny bobs his head in thought once or twice. “You know, despite the, uh, occasional tear-jerking viral video, it’s not usually the kid that does the asking.”

“I know that. Believe me, I— I regret that.”

Danny’s arm is around him, again. But there’s nothing much to say to that; so for a few minutes they just sit in silence.

It’s Danny who breaks it, with a quiet sigh. “I don’t know if this helps, but. Sometimes I feel like you kinda raised all of us. Or, maybe not raised us, but. You brought us in from the cold, you know? Your pack of strays.” He flashes a smile. “I mean, think about it. Chin, Kono, Lou, _Jerry_ — holy crap, talk about a stray dog— and Adam, and Tani. And, your boy. I don’t think that kid woulda made it without you, Steve, I really don’t.”

Steve doesn’t reply to that, directly. He _can’t_.

“If I had kids, they’d never know their grandparents. If I move out of that house, I’d have nothing to show them. But— I’m not gonna have kids, am I?”

“Steve. You have given so much love, so selflessly—”

“It’s not the same.”

Danny sighs. “I know,” he murmurs, tightening his hold. “I know it’s not, babe.”

Steve rests his head on Danny’s shoulder. Lets the tears run silently down the sides of his nose and drip onto Danny’s sleeve. Lets his eyes flutter.

And mourns the closing of a door that had been creaking for years, but had only just now fully shut.

*

They’re in Madison Square Park, eating pastrami sandwiches, when Steve takes a deep breath and says, “I think I know what I want to do.”

“Okay.”

“Just, do me a favor.” He’d closed his eyes without realizing; he opens them now. “If it’s stupid, just— tell me gentle, okay?”

“Okay.”

There’s a dog run in the park; from where they’re sitting Steve can see half a dozen dogs chasing tennis balls (or each other), while three more tangle in a playful wrestling match.

What better place than to come out and say it?

“I wanna foster dogs,” he blurts, before he can chicken out. “Like— retired military, retired police dogs. Help them find civilian families, if they can handle it. Look after them myself if they can’t.”

Danny’s silent a long moment; then he nods. “That’s the least stupid thing you’ve ever said.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You had me so ready for, like, one of your regular idiot ideas. But that’s not stupid at all.”

Steve’s been listening for sarcasm; hasn’t heard any. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now,” he admits. “Even before I left.”

“Getting Eddie was amazing for you,” Danny replies. “And getting you was amazing for Eddie. I think that’s a good way to do good. Without literally risking your life.”

“Okay.”

“I told you, you take in strays. You’re good like that. You’ll be a natural.”

Steve doesn’t realize how hard he’s smiling until his cheeks begin to twitch.

It hurts to think your future won’t be as you planned it; but it feels good to _have_ a future, and even better to have some hope left for it.

*

That night they buy their tickets home. The thought of leaving Jersey is difficult, but the thought of returning to Hawaii is surprisingly easy— though perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising after all.

On their third-to-last day, they do a victory lap of some of their favorite stops. They get more _pasteis de nada_ , then drive to the beach to farewell the Atlantic; they see the Great Falls of Paterson again; it’s much more impressive the second time around. Steve stares, transfixed, for ages. (And thinks maybe, just maybe, he sees a smiling face outlined in the rocks and rushing water.)

On their next-to-last day, they visit Matty’s grave. For the second time on this trip, Danny’s the one in need of real support; and it breaks Steve’s heart, but he’s glad to be useful.

He stands guard at Danny’s side. Buttresses him as he weathers torrent after torrent of sheer emotion. First Danny rages. Then he sobs, huddled up on a nearby bench with Steve’s arm around his back.

Back at the house, Steve makes him drink some water. Then he takes him out to the hammock and they rest together, side-by-side this time, Danny’s face buried in Steve’s shoulder.

As his friend drifts in and out of sleep, Steve holds him close. And thinks. About love, and death, and grief; and what the fuck to _do_ about all of it.

Because, historically, he’d’ve needed to _fix_ this. Set a problem before Steve McGarrett and he outlines strategies and next-steps; it’s just what he does.

But he can’t fix this. Matty’s dead— and so are Billy, and Meka, and Grace Tilwell— and so will Steve be, someday, probably sooner than seems fair.

Danny walks with this, every day.

And Steve can’t save him from it.

But what he can do— what he plans to never stop doing again— is stay anyway. Not fix it. Not even try. Just hold Danny’s hand and walk with him; and the sadness won’t disappear, but it won’t be all there is.

And maybe this shouldn’t seem like a revelation, but it does. Maybe this is something that other people have known for a while. But it’s new to him. It’s new, to think that the best thing he can do is just to stay, and love.

Luckily, he’s not half-bad at that.

*

On their last day Eddie makes them pancakes. Then they pack, and clean; strip the linens from the bunk beds and bring them down to the wash.

Clara hugs them both, whenever their paths cross. Steve’s already decided he’s not crying today— it is, unequivocally, Danny’s turn for the emotional spotlight again— but every time this happens, it gets a little harder not to. There’s just too much inside him. The grief of leaving and the joy of returning chase after each other in endless laps, until it feels like his heart is breaking and mending and breaking again once every five minutes.

So, okay, he cries just a tiny bit. On their third or fourth hug he lets a few tears seep into Clara’s curls; and feels better, once that’s done.

He takes their luggage out to the minivan. He finds Glinda (which isn’t hard) and pets her and says his goodbyes.

At just about noon it’s time to leave.

Clara and Eddie both come along, taking the front seats while Steve and Danny crawl in back, feeling like little kids. The airport’s about twenty minutes away. Steve stares out the window the whole time, greedy for everything: the shipping containers, the oil refineries. New York on the horizon.

Hawaii’s home. Obviously. But it hasn’t felt like home for ages; he hasn’t let anything feel like home, for ages.

Funny that it was _New Jersey_ , that taught him how to again.

They get to the airport, and following the looping path that takes them to the departures level in their terminal. They manage a curbside spot— no double-parking required— which, just like at HNL, is pretty impressive. And then they’re all on the sidewalk.

And it’s time to say goodbye.

Steve hugs Clara while Danny hugs Eddie, then they switch. But when Steve and Eddie pull apart, Danny and Clara are still clinging; and there’s nothing to be done but to add themselves into the embrace. For a solid half-minute they’re a four person bundle, insulated from the sounds of horns and jet engines.

When they finally pull away, Danny’s face is flooded. He barely manages a smile as Steve loops their arms together and keeps him upright as his parents step back towards the minivan. There’s a few more rounds of _I love you_ ’s, and promises to text as soon as they hit ground. Then Danny, still weeping, lets Steve shepherd him into the terminal. 

They make good time through bag drop and security; Steve appreciates this even more than he usually would, considering that the soft sniffles and discreet face-wiping slow but never stop.

And somewhere in there, Steve actually starts to worry. This only increases as Danny takes a detour on the way to their gate and heads towards an empty one instead.

“Are you okay?” Steve mutters, trying not to draw attention.

“Fine. Just need a minute.”

“In private?”

“Yeah. No— not private from you, dumbass,” Danny grunts, reading Steve’s reaction with ease. “Just, people.”

Unfortunately, there’s no place less private than an airport. But in the corner of an empty gate, backs to the rest of the terminal, they find themselves a nice little pocket.

Danny huddles tightly in his seat. Pilfers the hoodie from Steve’s carryon and wears it with the hood pulled down low. Then Steve leans back besides him and for a while they just watch the tarmac: workers and luggage carts and planes queueing for takeoff in the background.

Eventually Danny sighs. Runs the sleeve of the borrowed hoodie over his upper lip, and nudges Steve’s knee with his own. “Stop worrying. This is just— this is what happens. Basically tradition by now.”

“You want some water or something?” Steve offers, feeling a little useless. For all they’ve emoted together over the last month, something about this specific moment is quietly stumping him.

“Naw. It’s just— it’s a bitch man. ‘s a suckerpunch. Right here.” Danny rubs tightly at his waistband. “‘cept I guess it’s not a suckerpunch ‘cause I know it’s coming. But—”

“You still can’t brace for it.”

Danny nods; then sobs, very, very softly. “It floors me every time.”

His hands are folded loosely, now, hanging between his knees. Steve slips his own hand between them; laces fingers with one, while the other rests on top.

“I don’t think I’ve ever said this,” he muses, slowly, “but I’m sorry. That your two, your two halves are so far apart.”

“Everybody’s torn.” With one thumb Danny begins to stroke Steve’s wrist. “Everybody’s got more than one place to be— although yes, I will say, some people more than others.”

He smiles. Steve can’t see his eyes right now, but he can see the rest of his face; it’s a brave, if watery, expression. Then Danny shrugs.

“But at the end of the day. At the end of the day, you can only choose one place to be. Y’know? I want my parents, and my sisters. But I want my kids. And you. There’s no way around choosing. So, I choose the three of you. I choose Hawaii.”

It’s nothing earth-shattering. It is something else that really shouldn’t be a revelation. But in the moment, Danny’s hands small and sturdy, engulfing his, Steve sees it.

More clearly than ever before, he sees why things didn’t work out with Catherine.

Catherine had to make that kind of choice.

And she chose the place he wasn’t. 

He can’t hate her for it; it’s a choice he’s made wrong, himself. For a while there he chose the place where Danny wasn’t. But it’s not a mistake he’ll make again.

He never wants Danny to feel unchosen. Ever. 

Here and now, Steve knows they’ve chosen each other.

“Jesus, babe, please don’t cry,” Danny groans. “I mean it. I will never fucking stop, if you start, and I’m gettin’ a headache.”

“Not cryin’,” Steve grunts.

“Bullshit. You think I don’t know you at all, huh. Just hold off for now, okay? Personal favor. Save it for when you see your dog tonight.”

So Steve chuckles, and swallows back his tears, and offers to go for a snack run to calm them both down. Danny agrees in an instant. He wants a donut— or, any pastryish thing is fine— and he wants a drink. Maybe a martini. Whatever Steve can sneak back to the gate. And yes he knows what time it is; he _doesn’t care_ , thanks.

Ten minutes later, Steve returns with his bounty. Danny watches closely as he sets out three donuts, a fruit cup, a to-go glass of wine, and two bottles of water. He’s got the hood down now, no longer crying. Runny-nosed, yes, but palpably less upset.

After all, he’s going home, too.

Danny lets Steve take his first pick of donut, for the price of a strawberry from his fruit cup. Then he downs his wine. Scarfs the remaining two donuts and tucks up in the seat with his knees to his chest.

Steve, still working through his fruit cup, gives him a smile. Wordlessly coaxes him to take one of the waters and drink a little of it, because there’s no place worse to have a headache than on a plane.

When it’s all gone, Danny heaves a massive, gut-deep sigh.

“No, ‘m fine.” He sniffs, waving Steve off. “We should probably get to our actual gate.”

They’re just in time to join the line for boarding; it takes as much time as ever, but soon they’re settling into a comfortably uncrowded flight. In fact, as luck would have it, nobody joins them in their row. So when boarding is finished, Steve undoes his seatbelt, slides from the aisle seat to the middle, and gets his arm around Danny’s shoulders.

Danny snuffles, leans in. Then he grunts. Pulls back, shoves up the armrest between them; then settles close again, and goes still. 

He’s out cold before takeoff. 

As they hurdle down the runway, then again as they accelerate upwards, Steve tries his best to brace Danny, to absorb all the motion. It must work. Danny barely stirs. 

He keeps holding on as they level out, of course; rests his chin on Danny’s head and stares out the window, settling in for the long haul. It’s six hours to LA, then six beyond that. And as much as he loves being airborne, c’mon, who actually likes sitting still for twelve hours? All things considered, though, it could be worse. He’s got legroom, from the empty seat. And he’s got comfort and companionship and warmth— _necessary_ , since he doesn’t have his damn _hoodie_ — all from one Danny Williams, curled up in the next seat over.

And no, actually, come to think of it, this might be his favorite flight ever. It finally feels like he’s going in the right direction. 

And it feels like the right person is beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams in queerplatonic*
> 
> Anyway, that's that! May consider doing some oneshots in this "universe", but that's a wrap for the trilogy. Thank you all to those who read, enjoyed, and kudos'ed, and especially to those who commented and encouraged. I hope you like how this wraps up, because modesty be damned, I have to say that I do 😂


End file.
